


Adieu, my love

by AAluminium



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Death, F/M, Fault, Love, Past, Yearning, impasse, recollections, reminiscences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 01:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AAluminium/pseuds/AAluminium
Summary: Yes, Alexander – her Alexander – was renowned for his hot temper and vigor, especially when it came to the ideas he bolstered and fiercely defended no matter the evident flaws and shortcomings. Politicians called him a troublemaker, a gadfly that intruded on their little peaceful world unaffected by constant deprivations, frequent prerevolutionary insurrections and revolts, or by the revolution itself that simultaneously declared independence from Britain and trampled a regular man never involved in politics.





	Adieu, my love

“I am tired. I miss my Alexander.” 

Eliza, as if bearing an invisible incubus, slumped into the nearby armchair, placed her thin bony hands onto the armrests, closed her eyes and leaned back. Her fingers were slightly fidgeting, the eyelids fluttered, and her breasts, tightly chained by the corset, were heaving in time with unsteady breath. 

Yes, Alexander Hamilton was unrestrained. Yes, he was too straightforward and barely listened to the opponents’ opinions even though they sounded sensible and offered rational options. He was talkative: there was no other person in the whole country who would be able to recollect a moment when Alexander didn’t reply to a congressman’s claim. Yes, Alexander – her Alexander – was renowned for his hot temper and vigor, especially when it came to the ideas he bolstered and fiercely defended no matter the evident flaws and shortcomings. Politicians called him a troublemaker, a gadfly that intruded on their little peaceful world unaffected by constant deprivations, frequent prerevolutionary insurrections and revolts, or by the revolution itself that simultaneously declared independence from Britain and trampled a regular man never involved in politics. Pushing forward his projects, Hamilton didn’t pay heed to others, and was not afraid to be judged or discussed: he didn’t have to cut corners in order to ask for dissenting camps’ help. Out of sheer curiosity unrelated to pure altruism, Republicans did back him up a couple of times bestowing a crude epithet and an unflattering characteristic on him. As for the object of their ridicule, he, albeit not that tall, was always straight and inflexible. Hamilton forced his way either throwing witty remarks in response to the offenders, or publicly proclaiming their arguments unreasonable and invalid while getting drafts of the upcoming projects onto the Congress floor. 

He died three years ago. 

It’s been three years since he died. 

And Eliza’s Alexander Hamilton was different. 

Yes, he could be irksome: energetic and spry by nature, Alexander seemed to be doing a dime a dozen of things simultaneously. He was telling her about one thing, then another, at the same time speculating how to carry the third thing out and managing to repine against Jefferson and his party with little Madison revealing nothing but utmost responsibility. And yet, Eliza’s husband was notorious for his legendary irascibility that was mentioned by both those who had just made an acquaintance with him and those who had already clashed with him in debate. Thus, after making a compliment, Hamilton immediately hurried to tear little Madison down for being so meticulous and pernickety. Yes, sometimes Eliza got mad. Yes, sometimes they both were wrong. 

But he had become a miraculous father, and begrudged neither time nor energy for the kids even when he was buried underneath piles and piles of tax reports, pamphlets, drafts and letters. He wasn’t an ideal husband any girl dreamt of; he was always absent and constantly dealing with the public affairs – and still, he was gentle and solicitous. He indeed loved her; he loved her to the extent no man would ever love – weren’t his letters the proof? Didn’t his careful yet spasmodic touches cause delightful trepidation in the pit of her heart – till this very last day? Hadn’t his daunting, horrendous betrayal lacerated her soul so much that she barely found the strength to go on – and forgive him, downtrodden by triumphant Jefferson and his clique? He didn’t deny – he didn’t retract, he accepted his punishment meekly, albeit he himself induced others to precipitate him. He had been condemned by the country that saw nothing but infinite devotion; it had pushed him towards the scaffold, demanding explanations and public crucifixion. Alexander didn’t go back: hot-blooded, he had responded with a slap in the faces trying to be at least a step ahead of the enemy. Volatile and artful, Jefferson used the situation to his advantage: not implicated himself, as Hamilton had explained, he indirectly exploited it for his own sordid motives. Eliza didn’t believe it to a fault: Alexander’s proclivity for certain exaggerations had almost become as well-known as his quick temper. 

She was still keeping his letters in fruitless attempt to combat yearning and anguish tormenting her from the inside. She no longer blamed Burr who had pulled the trigger in this hapless Weehawken; she no longer cursed him and had learned how to live knowing the man taken her dear husband’s life was still treading the globe and obviously didn’t feel a slightest twingle of remorse. Eliza barely heard from the Congress, and actually she wasn’t too interested in what was happening to this tight knot of serpents trying to ingratiate themselves with the most affluent viper. Her woe became quiet; even the closest people including her sisters she hardly met, were unable to spot the rueful, languishing glow in her vivid brown eyes that were reputed to be the Schuylers’ brightest hallmark. Apparently, it was written in the stars. Apparently, this was God’s decision.

Eliza heaved a sigh and lifted her hand towards the chest. One of the dearest letters was kept in the corset, but she couldn’t make herself reread this: she was aware of the memories that would take hold of her mind and soul. 

“Alexander, I miss you.” 

Her long trembling fingers grabbed the thin lace throwing a flirtatious shadow on the pale skin – and in a heartbeat, the languid hand lifelessly rested on the elbow of the armchair. The woman didn’t take the liberty of running her eyes across the snaking lines and turn her mind to the moments when Aaron Burr was infamous for being a dingy schemer, not a coldblooded murderer. Back then, Hamilton made snide remarks considering his way of life, and even Jefferson sustained him albeit normally the Republican would be violently opposed towards anything Alexander was connected with. In all honesty, sometimes Thomas seemed to say ‘yes’ just because his rival was strongly against the notion; Hamilton, on the contrary, appeared to get all stirred up – eager to fuel the flame, he pressed more aggressively, accusing his adversary of inactivity and constant standstills, or of the dearth of political spirit. However, the latter couldn’t care less – but the former was irked. 

Eliza couldn’t suppress a feeble smile: many a man mocked Jefferson secretly, scared to lose such auspices. Her husband didn’t need an associate like that, so he hardly squelch the temptation to discover political incapacity of the opponent. Restless, irrepressible Alexander… Come to think of it, she was one of the few who saw him exhausted, nearly haggard. For others, he was the ever-living source of enthusiasm and ardor. She did meet him at home every evening, tenderly took the hat off his hands and hung the coat watching him ruffle the children’s hair paying particular attention to all of them equally. Once, she dared peep into office – the door was ajar, and the woman couldn’t fight her curiosity urging her to check what he was doing. Alexander was writing, dipping the quill into the inkstand. The quivering flame sitting at the very end of the wick that was floating in the pool of melted wax, was dancing on the paper following the creaking of the pen. Sighing, Eliza, candle in hand, entered the room, wrapped a shawl tighter, halted at the man’s table. 

“Alexander,” the woman subtly placed a hand on the redhead’s shoulder, “it’s late. Go to bed.” 

“Right… But I have to finish something…” 

His voice sounded languorous – but the sense of duty that had been pounding him in him for the whole life didn’t let him leave the cause on its own devices and go with the flow. 

“No, Alexander. You’ll see to it down the road.” 

“But Eliza–” 

Although he made a weak attempt to protest, deep inside he was grateful for her persistence and patience. He himself would never take the liberty of leaving the report unaccomplished, and would be sitting till dawn either multiplying long rows of numbers or working out the kinks of another plan making sure Republicans had practically nothing to find fault with. 

“Come on. There’s no using doing it so worn-out.” The woman bent over him, placed the candle near his elbow covered by a hiked-up loose sleeve, and planted a kiss on the top of his head. 

Alexander, releasing a sigh, dipped the quill into the ink one more time. 

“No more writing?” he asked raising his hazy eyes sparkling in the dim light. 

“No more writing.” 

His pale face beamed with a humble smile: Eliza was always baffled by the ability to stay a perilous opponent in Congress and be a loving man at home. Those two incarnations of his complicated nature were never in conflict with each other, but it was hard to say they converged either. The woman, maintaining a lopsided grin while listening to his perpetual conversations and contemplations about politics, had never faced scandalous straightforwardness of a Federalist preferring to wound deeply and sting painfully flummoxing and obfuscating the rival by his frank – thus rough – claim. He barely chose the words to be considered a gallant gentleman, though never behaved blatantly; even after the betrayal Eliza had to go through, she still powerfully loved him and realized he did not want to hurt her intentionally. He returned affection in exchange of her care, and just when the balance had restored into their chaotic universe, Aaron Burr emerged out of nowhere to take a pamphlet very much to his heart! Hamilton hit congressmen with the same force, he wrote about each and every one – and he did it consciously, visualizing that another pot-shot would for sure sully his reputation.  
And still moved on. 

And still strode ahead. 

Eliza’s fingers twitched; her lips muttered something incoherently. 

“I love you more and more every hour… Adieu my love.” 

That was all that left. “Adieu, my love.” 

“Farewell, my Hamilton. Adieu, my love.”


End file.
